


αγγειον

by Villainyandgoodcheekbones



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: In which I avoid the problem of making Enjolras OOC by just leaving him knocked out half the time, M/M, Other, also featuring creepy text effects and midly deranged angels, and me having waaaay too much fun with a Greek lexicon, demon Montparnasse, it's a valid strategy shut up, some violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-16
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-05 12:06:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Villainyandgoodcheekbones/pseuds/Villainyandgoodcheekbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras as the vessel of the angel of Justice. Grantaire as the world’s least-pious monk. A sprawling fantasy epic, rife with vague Homeric allusions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ελύθερος

He knew every inch of the man’s body. He knew the things no-one else did: that there was a puckered scar on the bottom of his left heel and a dusting of pale, almost invisible freckles across his chest that nobody else ever saw. He knew that a hand pressed against the man’s hip in just the right place would make his eyelids flutter and draw a soft moan, and that his thick golden hair was coarser than people thought it was.

But they had never spoken a word to each other. Grantaire didn’t even know his name.

It was like this:

Every day, after the sixth bell, Eliferos, the angel whose name is Freedom, He-Who-Hears-the-People, whose provenance is the suffering of the righteous and the breaking of their chains, came down and held his court under the Corinthian’s shadow, there to pass judgment on the tyrant and uphold the rights of all Man.

And, as his priests took great pains to explain, an angel was not of the same stuff as a man, and could not move in a man’s world without taking on a man’s flesh, and your son, madam, he has been Chosen. Eliferos, the angel whose name is Freedom took his body everyday between the sixth bell and the seventh, and his golden hair glowed and his eyes burned and his marble skin was translucent, with the light pouring through it.

But after the seventh bell, he was just a man again, unworthy, (and  unconscious, for a man was not meant to burn so bright) and it fell to a disgraced acolyte like Grantaire to keep him in one piece until the next day. It was Grantaire’s job to lay him out on the long white table, draped in red cloth. It was Grantaire’s job to put him back together, to  wipe the blood from his lips and bandage the inevitable burns on his palms and his wrists, because Grantaire was the only one who could bear to look. Grantaire didn’t believe in angels. He knew, of course, that they existed, but that wasn’t the same thing at all.  

“Ah, Golden  Boy. Poor Golden Boy.” Grantaire drawled, dabbing at the man’s cracked mouth with a damp cloth. “He burned you right up today, didn’t he? Pompous ass.” He perched on the edge of the table and drew one limp hand into his lap. “I blaspheme, of course. I suspect you would disapprove. But he is an ingrate, you know.” The linen bandages were startlingly white against the ruined red flesh of the man’s palm. “See? Ruined.  No care for you, none for me, hears the cries of the people, but doesn’t listen to a damn word I say. I’m waiting for him to strike me down, but he is shockingly un-obliging in this respect. Arrogant prick. I don’t know how you can fucking stand to have him inside you.” Grantaire smirked. “Does he ask? I would ask. I’d beg. I’m blaspheming again, but I’m drunk.”

He settled the man’ newly-bandaged hand back across his chest and smoothed the hair away from his face. “I think you would hate me if you were awake.” Grantaire said gently “I don’t blame you. I often hate me, too. I talk too much. You should wake up and interrupt me. I’m terrible for myself.”

There was no answer. The man remained still, his chest only barely moving with each breath. Grantaire slid off the table with a rueful laugh. “Well. I suppose we all die of something; I’ll kill me, and Freedom’ll kill you, which is a crime, you know, Golden Boy. You, that is, him killing you and getting away with it. But there’s no such thing as justice, is there? Good night, Golden Boy.”

Grantaire turned to leave, and imagined that he heard, just before he walked out into the corridor, a faint rustle of cloth, as if a man atop a red-draped table was stirring and waking up. He imagined that he heard a weak voice that hinted at being bright and ringing when not rough with sleep and disuse say “I have a name, you know.” Grantaire imagined that he asked what such a holy name might be. He imagined that he heard a scoff, and the word “Enjolras.”

Then again, Grantaire was drunk, and he didn’t believe in angels.

 


	2. ἡμέρα

On the list of the many, many reasons he was going to burn, Grantaire wasn’t sure exactly where wanting to take the holy avatar of Justice across the table ranked.  Certainly somewhere near the top. Granted, he was a poor student of official doctrine, but he was almost certain that pressing an angel’s earthly vessel back against the red drapery, and following him down with lips pressed against his neck, worshipping every part of him with a wine-dark mouth was an unacceptable form of praise.

But what was faith for, if not to give a man hope for the future? “I may start my own Church and dedicate to you. I find that I’m divinely inspired.”

 “That is fortunate, indeed. May we all pray for such. Brother.”

Grantaire started, tucking his hands hurriedly back into his sleeves.   
“Brother.”

There were no ranks within the Clergy of Eliferos. Each man was only “Brother”, as all men are brothers. There were no ranks, but an older, wiser brother might naturally expect deference from his younger kin. An older, wiser brother might naturally take measures to ensure that it was so. The man who wrote that all men are brothers was an only child. Grantaire lowered his eyes.

“Strange to see him like this. It’s such heavy burden for a man to bear. And one so young…I wonder if we ask too much of those Chosen. But.” The newcomer rapped his knuckles against the marble. The man on the table didn’t stir. “The judgments of Eliferos are absolute. He cannot work without His vessel. We must preserve it.”

“Him.”

The older priest flashed his teeth in a thin smile.  “Yes, of course. Him. Give him this” he said, and held up a thin vial. Something liquid and golden swirled inside. Grantaire took it hesitiantly, rolling the vial between his fingers. He glanced up.

“What is it?”

“That is not your concern!” Then the newcomer smiled his thin smile again “But your…care for him does you credit. It is to help him recover more quickly, nothing more.” Grantaire nodded stiffly, and waited for him to go. He didn’t. He hovered at the head of the table, a vulture in a coarse white habit, with his knuckles still resting against the marble corner of the table and his eyebrows raised expectantly.

Oil-slick colours shimmered and rippled under the glass. Grantaire cupped the back of the man’s head and tilted face upward. He could barely swallow, and by the time the vial was empty, he had gone bloodlessly pale.  Not a single one of the priests’ smiles had touched his eyes, but this one did, lighting them with something glittering and cold. “Ah, but such devotion is to be admired. I commend you for it, brother. You must truly love your God.”

Grantaire swallowed and said “Of course. Who would not want Freedom?”

—————————————————————————

Sixth Bell.

“Let the one called LeCabuc stand forth and be judged!”

Eliferos, the Angel whose name is Freedom, burned. Light was his eyes and light was his face and the rippling, half-visible shape of the wings streaming back from his shoulders was blazing, pale light. LeCabuc’s chin was tilted upward by one strangely cold hand, and Eliferos, the Angel whose name is Freedom brushed pale fingers against his mouth.

“They have sinned who would accuse this man. Bring them forth.”

He was a farmer, shaking as he was lead up to the dais. He was shaking as Eliferos, the Angel whose is Freedom reached out and forced him, tenderly, to his knees. “They are not free who bear false witness. Their lies have bound them to the dark” His face was light, and full of haughty pity. He rested one hand gently, so gently, on the farmer’s head. “But the light of the Truth shall break their chains.

There was a flash.

Then a scream.

“Their graves shall be illuminated by the dawn.”

The judgments of Eliferos were absolute.


	3. δικαιοκρισία

He pressed tender kisses to their foreheads, and the mark of his lips left a red brand.

He brushed his thumb across their cheeks, and their tears turned to steam on his hands.

Gently, so gently, He closed their eyes and told them not to be afraid.

He showed them light.

They fell. They died.

And the priests…

The Priests of Eliferos, the Angel whose name is Freedom, fingered their books and were seen to come and go from houses of the rich and the halls of the mighty, who found themselves moved to sudden piety. The Priests of Eliferos wrote down names and smiled cold narrow smiles.

And Grantaire laid out the Angel’s vessel on a long white table, draped in red cloth, and rolled a thin vial in his fingers and said “They tell me He killed another one today. And they tell me to give you this again. I’m tempted to tell them to go fuck themselves, but…”

(but he had already tried, crushing the vial under his heel and the next day nobody had died and the soles of his feet and his legs beneath his habit still bore the marks of his Brothers’ discipline. but Grantaire still bled when he walked)

“But they would only send someone else. So.” He smiled ruefully. “Perhaps you’d appreciate that, but since you’re not awake to tell me otherwise…” Grantaire lifted his head, and tipped the vials to his lips.  “I am sorry, you know”. He crossed the man’s bandaged hands over his chest. “You don’t. But I’m sorry. Try not to hate me too much when you wake up.”  And Grantaire pressed the man’s hand and left. He went back to his cell.  He drank.

And Enjolras woke up.

It hurt, every time, like trying to be born all over again. He was blind, every time, with a black-and-red haze across his vision like he’d stared too long at the sun. It hurt trying to remember how to see, trying to remember where the edges of himself were. It started to hurt trying to remember to roll onto his side so that he wouldn’t choke on the thin yellow bile that rose in his throat as his stomach heaved and he retched over the side of the table. They brought him water. And every day, they asked him “Is there anything else?”

Every day, Enjolras said “Bring me their names.”

He drew his knees to his chest and stared at the lists.  They grew longer and longer until the names began run together in his head and he clenched the paper in his ruined hands with a snarl.

“Where do you keep them?”

“What?”  They sent a boy to bring him food, which he could barely keep down, and the poor thing was so startled by the sudden question that he nearly dropped his tray. Enjolras almost pitied him, but he had started to forget what pity felt like (The judgments of Eliferos were absolute).

“These” he said, tapping the crumpled page, “the lists. The _names_ ”

They sputtered helplessly “I– with the other records, I suppose. In the library? I don’t… you would have to ask the Brother Archivists, I, I’m  not sure. D-did you want–”

But Enjolras was already gone.

The library was dark and cool and thus merciful to the hung-over.  The statues there had smooth, worn-down hands and the mural of St. Combeferre on the wall had kind eyes, and it was quiet enough that Grantaire could  pretend not to hear the noise behind his skull while he tried to sleep off the wine, tucked against the high shelves.

 _wa̶͘͞k̷͜e ͟ưp̶͠͏ ̵w͠a̵͜kę̶͡ u̵͏͝p̛͝ ̵͜͢_  
͜͟w̶e̛͡-I n̕e̢e̸̸͝d̸̴ ̧̧͡y̧ou͘ ̵́h̢e̶̴̛ ҉ǹ͜e̢͝e̸d҉s̕͝ ͠  
͝w͟͠a̕k̛͜é͠ ҉͘u͏͟p̀ ̶̛͞  
͢l͏͠i̷̶gḩt͏́ i͘s̡ ̴b̸u͜͞r̕n̷i̷̵ǹ̡҉g͏ ͜á̕n̸͏d͘ ̷͏̶ẁe̷̷-I  c̷a̶ņ̶͢n̷̷̨o͘͠t͠ ̸͝r̨̢ȩa̸̡͜c̕h̷ ͟h̨e̢ ̧ća̛n͠not̕ ̶͠  
d͢a̵rk ̕h̶̕e̵̕͟ŕ̷e҉̴ ͘sǫ͢ ̶̕͠dá͘rķ͘͝ a̷̛nd̀͏ ̛g͏̶r̸̀e͜e҉͟n͢͜ ̴̵a͜n̶҉͏d ǵo͘҉l҉d   
l͏̛i҉s̨t̸̶̢en̷  
̴̛wa̵̷ke̸̸͟ ͏͟u͟p ͘͟w͡͡a͡kę ͢҉u̢p ̶WA͝KE UP

“…ther Archivist?”

That one was new, he thought.

No.

No, that was a real voice, wasn’t it? Grantaire moaned, head buried in his lap.

“Brother Archivist isn’t here.” Silence. Grantaire moaned again “Are you looking for something?”

He imagined that there something vaguely familiar about the voice which answered “I need to look at the records of the judgments” Then again, people often sounded irately put-upon when talking to him ,so perhaps it was just that. Grantaire gestured obscurely with one hand.

“By all means. They’re back there…somewhere” and he waited to hear the sound of footsteps walking away. Silence. “I’m afraid I can’t help any more than that. It might make you feel indebted to me, and obligation is a kind of bondage. As a brother of the Holy Order of Eliferos whose name is Freedom, I couldn’t possibly let that happen. It wouldn’t be right.”

 There was a distinct lack of footsteps walking away. Instead, Grantaire heard “How pious of you.”  Deserts were not as dry as that voice; it made them look like oceans. Grantaire could almost admire his visitor for that. It almost made him want to get up, but the pain flared in his legs, and he hissed softly through his teeth.

“I am a saint. A martyr, even. You’d have to be the angel Himself to outmatch me.” Grantaire slit open one eye. “And you can’t claim that you are, since all blasphemies here require my express permission before the fact and you,” He raised his head and felt his mouth fall open in wordless shock. “You.”

It was impossible, of course, for the holy vessel of an angel to look anything but unearthly and serene. There was nevertheless an approximate expression on his face that a layman might have called smugly amused.  Laymen, however, knew nothing. Enjolras raised an eyebrow.

“At the back, you said?” Grantaire scrambled to his feet, heedless of the cuts re-opening on his legs and feet.

“Ah, yes, yes, did you need help with–”

Enjolras’s face was haughty and sympathetic and wholly insincere. “Oh, no. I would hate you to feel as if you had to help me. Obligation is a kind of bondage, and I couldn’t possibly let that happen. It wouldn’t be right.”

Awestruck, Grantaire stared at his retreating back and Enjolras at last turned and began to walk away. His gaze slipped lower, and the cloth pulled tight across Enjolras’s…

Grantaire was a cynic, and a blasphemer, and he didn’t believe in angels. But he watched Enjolras go, and watched the cloth pull tight and thought that miracles might be possible after all.


	4. θηρίον

_He is Therion, who is the wilds, who is all the dark wild running things and he knows better than anyone does, better than anyone ever can, that freedom is also freedom to fall and freedom to fail and freedom to chase the things you know will burn you, hunt them and hold them down, the bright shining thing you love, with your hands buried in His hair._

 

_He is Therion and he runs and there is only thing that he has ever loved, will ever love, and that is freedom, his Freedom, his Elitheros, white and gold. The touch of Freedom burns, so hot it feels like ice and steel and he arcs upward into it, back bowed. These bodies are so new still. He is Therion, and he loves with a wild’s thing’s love, trembling and wary; his fingers trace across the burning skin above him with awestruck wonder, half-afraid to draw too close, even more afraid to leave. So new, all this skin and these warm lips, hot mouths open and panting or pressed to throats and hips and every part he can reach. He curls his hands against the place where the not-feathers of Freedom’s wings meet his back and Elitheros keens and presses against him, hard and it will leave marks he can trace long after they part. He smiles._

_He is Therion, who is the wilds, and he loves with a wild thing’s love, dark and fierce. He presses his hand over the place he knows a heart is, or should be, and follows it with a wine-dark mouth and a scrape of teeth.  He rakes his fingers down flanks and ribs and knots them in golden hair, and knows that Freedom, his Elitheros will not stay. But he is a wild thing, and he will have this, even if it burns him._

_Wild things have no temples. There are no prayers to wild things, no Brothers dressed in wine-dark robes to pass on what they say. But they are trying to take his Freedom, his Elitheros, they are hurting Him, and he will not let them. He is Therion, wild, and he will find a way. So he runs, until his footsteps fill with wine-dark blood and he claws his way through wine-dark haze and whispers_

_L̨I̛̕S̴̨̕T̷E̷̶N̸  
̨̡͢We̛-͏I ̵n̷̶eed̸̢̨ ̡́y̛͜͞o͜҉u,̢͘͝ ̨͠Hę̷ ͞nęe҉ds̶ ̸̨̛y̧͝͏o͞ų̵͟-̴͝͠u̶s͢͟  
̸̕Ẁ̴͠a҉k̵̀e̸҉̛ u̷̷͜p.̸̨҉ ͝W͝AK̛E ͏U̸̡͟P̴̨  
̧̛͢T͡͏hey̵̕ ҉a̸re̷̡ ly̵ing̸͏,̵͡ ̴͘͢ĺy̴̧i҉̨͘n͜g̛, ͘f́͟i̴͝ņ̧̛d͟ ͏t̡h̶͢è͘ḿ̛͟,͜ h̵͏ú͟͞ǹ̸͝t͜͠ ̛͏͞t̀he̡m̧͟͝  
͞H̶͟e͏̴͢l̶̀͡p̴̶ ̧͢H̸̡i̛͝m͝͏  
̀͜Wi͏͢͠l̀d̶̛̀ ̸̢̕th̕ìņ͜gş̧ ̸̕c̸a͏́nn̛͘ǫ̸͡t ̨͞l͞͞iv̶e̷̴͝ ̀͞u̶̸̕n҉͞f̡͝͏re̢͟ę́  
̛N̡͞͡o̢͜͜ ̸̀͢Fr͜͞e̵̕͡e̴͠d҉̸͢ơ̕m a͟͠nd͞ ̧W҉́͘e̛-I ̸͢c̵à͞n̨͜͢ņ̢ot̨̢  
̡͞Y̛͜͏ou͏ c̢͞a̢̕ņn͟o̵̕t́͝,҉ ͞͝ỳ͞͠o͞u̷͡-̢͟w̛͜͞e҉ ̸̵͏m͘͜͢ùś͝t̵̶̷  
̸͞Hél̴͜p̵̕ ̴H̸i̵͜m̶͘͡  
҉L̷͞͠Í́̕S̕T̛E̷̸͢N  
̨W͘͠a̕k̨e͟҉ up͢͠.  
͠W̛a̵҉k͝e҉҉ ͠u̵̸͘p̶̧ ͡W̧̧ak̶e͜҉ ͘u͠p̷̨ ͜ ̨҉w҉A̧K̴̷E ̀ƯP̷  
̷̧_ **_ẀA̡K̨͞E͡ U̸͞P_ **

Grantaire woke, chest heaving with the sweat beading cold down his spine.

Sane men didn’t go to Mount Paranassus at night. There were _things_ on the mountain. Who knew what might happen if you drew their attention? Better by far to stay inside. Who knew might catch their eye?

You could offer them wine, Grantaire knew that. Wine, sometimes flowers, or bright things.  But the one he was looking for took blood.  Not that a holy Brother was meant to know any of that. Not that he was any kind of example of what a holy Brother ought to be like, he thought, drawing the knife across his palm.

“You know, you can’t have it back. That deal’s done.”

Grantaire snorted. “If you were expecting wailing and gnashing of teeth, you’ll have to give me a moment. I’m not quite myself.”

Montparnasse grinned evilly. “I like you like this. Such teeth! And so cynical.”

“A fault I was born with, I’m afraid.”

“But that’s not true, is it?” Montparnasse paced lazily around him, catlike and cruel. “I remember you, a little trembling thing all alone on my mountain, desperate. You were such a lovely thing, so afraid, willing to give up _anything_ to stop the noises.” Montparnasse had eyes like stars, glittering.

“And I did. And you said they _would_ stop.” Grantaire snapped.

“Oh? I take it that they haven’t?” Silence. “Ah, well. I must have lied. There’s quite a lot of that going around these days.” Grantaire bowed his head and squeezed his eyes shut.

“What do you want?”

“What do _I_ want? You called me here, not the other way around. It’s not about what _I_ want. It’s about what you want, and what you’re willing to give up to get it.”

Grantaire’s voice was hollow and rough. “Why are they back? Why can I hear them again?” Montparnasse huffed irritatedly.

“I have no idea. And I’m not even lying this time, I promise” he drawled, one hand pressed where a heart should have been. “Poor little cynic. You must be going mad.” His tongue, much too red, darted out and flicked across his lips. “Is that all?”

“I’m insulted. I am still bleeding out into the dirt to keep you here. _No_. That’s not all. You can tell me what this is.” Montparnasse caught the vial lightly in one hand, raising it to his face. A hint of gold still shimmered inside, and Montparnasse’s eyes narrowed.

“Where did you get this?” he breathed.

“What does it do?”

Montparnasse told him.

Blood and wine dripped slowly to the ground, and Montparnasse’s eyes glittered coldly.

“Another one of you? Now that _is_ a miracle. It’s not often the Church calls me up twice in one night.”

The priest, a vulture in a coarse white habit, smiled a narrow smile.

“Tell me more.”


	5. καταδέω

Men could not be free while ignorant. That was the Doctrine of Eliferos.

The Brothers of Eliferos were great teachers. They taught him so much. They taught him how to read, how to write.

They taught him that if you cut deep enough, blood wasn’t red at all. It was purple, almost black. He hadn’t known there were such colours inside him. He learned just how long he could bear the lash before blacking out, hearing

_Mine, wild thing, you are mine, are me, they will not take you, i-we will not let them, mine, wild thing, wild things look after their own_

_They will not take you_

_They will not_

And then waking to the sound of human voices.

“Brother Grantiare, to consort with _demons_ is among the gravest of sins. Do you understand what you have done?”

Yes. He could not nod, but his fell forward, once.

“Do you understand why must be punished? Why you must be scourged of this sin before you go to face judgment?”

Yes.

“Do you repent?”

Grantaire sobbed, or tried to sob, words spilling out over and over and over “I repent, I repent, I repent, I–”

Then it was black again, and there were hands wrapping up his back and his shoulders. They were soft hands, and the face looming above them looked kind and sad. It frowned at him as Grantaire tried to stand.

“Stop that. You need to rest.”

“Wh–?”

“They’re taking you before the Angel at the sixth bell.”

Grantaire closed his eyes, and fell back onto his cot. “What time is it now?”

“The fourth.” Not long then. Not so long at all, and Grantaire never had expected to die old. Sleep came quickly, like a rehearsal. They came for him just before the bells rang.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t imagined it before, those hands on his shoulders and that voice telling him “kneel”.

No, it wasn’t the first time Grantaire had imagined himself down on his knees before this man. _Not a man right now, though, is he?_

Eliferos, the Angel whose name is Freedom stretched out one slim hand–

and paused, fingertips hovering just above Grantaire’s face. He tilted his head slowly to one side and he looked almost…confused. But that was impossible. Grantaire felt his breath catch in his throat as the hand came down again, and he closed his eyes, expecting light, but there was only cold, only hands mapping the distance between his eyes, the space from temple to jaw, the sweep of both cheeks. Eliferos whose name is Freedom, bent low (and the skin of his bare chest was marble, thin enough to see the light through and so still; he didn’t breathe at all), staring straight into Grantaire’s eyes. They were blue, they always had been, except that

            … _know you, we-I know you, our Freedom, ours…_

Something dark flickered behind them, there and gone again. Eliferos rose.

“This one goes free.”

And there was a ripple among the priests, murmuring and muttering and glowering, but not a one of them moved. The judgments of Eliferos were absolute.

They must have changed whoever it was that looked after him when he was…gone. Not that Enjolras knew anything about the man charged with looking after him after the Angel left, just…

Things weren’t the same. The bandages were wrapped too tightly, strangling his hands, or else too loose. His lips were dry and cracked, there were knots in his hair and his heavy limbs that weren’t there before. Enjolras woke again and again to the screaming protest of the muscles in back, and list of names. It was getting easier to blaspheme; he swore under his breath and watched as they grew longer and longer. Enjolras forced himself to memorize every name.

They had locked the archives. Nobody in, nobody out.

Enjolras snarled and paced and snarled, and tried to force the pieces together in his head, but nothing fit. The Angel took at the sixth Bell. He stopped remembering things; there was an apple tree, a long time ago, and he remembered that he climbed it. The one day he didn’t.  Enjolras forgot a room with blue windows and a red-headed boy. But never the names. He remembered every one, and even when he could do nothing else, he whispered them under his breath, over and over “Sabine, LeCabuc, Mabeauf, Amaelie, Antoine, Theodule, LaNoir, LeBlanc, Gorbeau, Jean, Grantaire…”

“How do you know my name?”

Enjolras whirled at the sound. A man in a brother’s rough habit tottered towards him. He looked drawn and pale, moving as if each motion pained him, with one hand pressed to the wall to hold himself up and his eyes glassy and too bright.

“What?”

Grantaire swallowed convulsively and edged forward again. “My name. You said my name, how do you know my name?”

Enjolras stared warily, “I’m sorry, have we spoken?”

“No, we have n–well yes, we have, I was hung over then, I’m drunk now, that’s not the point.” Grantaire winced, eyes squeezing shut. He shook his head. “Lord, the _things_ I’ve done for you. You can at least tell me–the lists. It’s the lists, isn’t it?” He laughed bitterly “You noble ass. You learn all their names, don’t you?”

There was something familiar about him. Enjolras toyed with the loose end of a bandage, and then–

“You’re the Brother from the Archives.” He said drily, eyebrows raised. “What exactly have you done for me, other than insulting me and accosting me in hallways?”

“Fixed you. I fixed you, until they replaced me, and may I say my successor is doing a _shit_ job of it? Your hands are bleeding.” Grantaire laughed again, harsh and hard “Blood on your hands. And you learn all their names. That’s poetic, isn’t it?” He sighed, and pressed his forehead to the cool brick of the wall. “Done a lot of things for you. Ingrate.”

Enjolras huffed “You’re sick” he said flatly. “You need help. I’ll see that they send someone for you.” Grantaire flung himself away from the wall violently.

“I am not sick” he snapped. “I’m drunk and I’m going mad and I’m dying. I’m beyond _help_. You’re the one who needs help.” Poor man. Enjolras shook his head and turned away. Grantaire’s voice followed him.

“You’re starting to forget things, aren’t you? People, places. You can’t remember them anymore.” Grantaire called out.

Enjolras stopped dead. “What do you know about that?” His voice had grown sharp and tense.

“There’s– _ah”_ Grantaire opened his mouth to speak, then doubled over, clutching his head. He forced himself upright with a violent spasm, and stood there, trembling.  “I can’t talk now. Tomorrow, come again tomorrow, we’ll talk then.” Enjolras said nothing. “Please. I swear”

He held out his hand. The seconds stretched taut between them. Enjolras pressed a bandaged palm to Grantaire’s. “Tomorrow”, Enjolras agreed. He turned to go, but Grantaire’s fingers closed around his wrist. Without a sound, Grantaire began to tug and pull at the linen swaddling Enjolras’s hand, moving with a delicacy that belied the trembling of his fingers. He smoothed the pad of his thumb over Enjolras’s palm, right where it met his wrist, then fell back.

“Tomorrow.” Grantaire murmured.

Alone, Enjolras flexed his hand experimentally. It was easier to move, and he could hardly feel the bandages.


	6. αἷμα

Eliferos was golden, and pale and cold and burning.

The hands shaking Grantaire awake were also pale, and also cold, but much too freckled and much too rough. Grantaire groaned and hissed, blinking blearily up at the red-headed man standing over him.

“You’re a miserable sinner. Go away, Feuilly.”

“Of course” the redhead drawled. “Because of the two of us, I’m clearly more blasphemous. Obviously.”

“You are”. Grantaire buried his head in the crook of his arm. “You were out with that Guardsman again, I can tell.” Feuilly rocked back on his heels, cocking one eyebrow up.

“You mean the Guardsman who you drink with? Who’s your friend, too? Who lets you out of the city gates to go up to the mountain in the middle of the fucking night without telling anyone because I ask him to? That Guardsman?”

Silence.  Then,

“Haven’t you got novices to harass, Brother Craftsman? ‘You touch that pigment without leave, boy, and so help me I’ll carve your buttocks up with a book knife and feed them to you’ and all that?”

“No. I reserve that one for you. Novices get their bones powdered and used to set the paint.” Feuilly deadpanned. He sighed and pressed his lips together. “You were talking in your sleep again. I heard you through the walls.”

It was light, much too light to be morning. The sun painted the insides of his eyelids red as Grantaire dragged himself upright. “’time is it?” he muttered.

“Almost midday. I told the others you were still too weak for anything.” Feuilly started as Grantaire scrambled to his feet, swearing violently.  But he was still too weak for anything, and his legs betrayed him; Grantaire staggered, lurched forward, fell, stopped only by Feuilly’s  hand on his arm.

And for a moment, Grantaire wanted to scream, wanted to run, bolt, flee

 _r̵u̸̵nr̵̡u͡n̷̴r̸̛͢u͝ǹr͝u͘ń ̴͠d̷̨o̶ń͟͝’t ̡͟_ **to̡͟ų͟c̴h** mę̨͜-͜t̶o͜͠u̵c͠h̀͜ ̷͘҉u̸s̨̢ ͞l͞e̴͝t͏ ̴̷̧g͘o͢͡͡  
̡̕ẁ̀il̛͟l̨̢͜ ͠not̕͟ ̢͏let̷͢ ͡  
̧y̵̢o͏͘ú  
́h͢͝ì̀m̛  
̨ **a̛͡ny͡on͝e̵**  
̵̧n̨o̢t ̵̛͘l͜et̷̸̢ ͏͘yò͢ù ́͢͟cą͠tc͏͘͢h̴̨̨ ̴̨u̧̡s҉҉, ͞c̡͡͠àt͢c̡͞h͟ ͢m͞e ẁ̵e̡-I̸͜ ̨͜w̸̸̶i҉ļ̨l̡̀͠ ̶̵m̛͏̀á̵͠k̴̵e̷̢̨ ̴̧҉y͘ou҉҉ ̵̢͝b̵l̡͟e͏̧͘e̸͝d  
̨̛͟d͘͟o̡͜n̵’̧͘t͢ ̸͢ **t̵o͟͠uc̷̨h̵͝** ̵̵̶m̴̸e͠  
t́͏̀ǫ́͝u̷̧c̕h̨ ͡u̴ş͏  
̴͟l͘͢ȩ̡t̵͞ ́͢͞g̸̢ò  
͠r̷̕u̢n̸  
͏r̢̛unr͘͡u̵҉҉nr̡͟uņ  
 **R̸U̸͢N͢͝**

He could feel himself quivering, rigid, a string about to snap, then Grantaire all but collapsed, wilting  against Feuilly’s side.

“Is it important?” Feuilly asked bluntly. Grantaire forced himself to nod, still shaking. “Fine.”  With one arm draped across Feuilly’s shoulders, Grantaire hobbled out of his cell, only to find that he could only stand by bracing himself against the wall the moment the other man stepped away. He flashed Feuilly a weak grin, and the redhead sighed and pressed his lips together again. “Just don’t die.” He said. “Or I’ll do _hideous_ things to your corpse.”

Grantaire laughed. “You are the very soul of kindness and mercy. They should make a saint of you.”

Feuilly glared. “I mean it.

“So do I”

The walk took much too long.

No.

No, the jagged bursts of forward motion, the limping, staggering, wall-hugging inch down the hallways took much too long. By the time he found the right corridor, his breath came ragged and hot in his throat, and the half-bells had started to ring.

And then Grantaire saw him again, and _oh._ Oh, that, _that_ was why he’d been chosen, why the Angel had picked out Golden Boy, who stood with his long, yellow-gold hair drawn over one shoulder. Golden Boy _whose name you still don’t even know_ , Grantaire thought, Golden Boy who looked for all the world like a martyr cut from marble, stood in the half-light of a window and fixed him with a bright blue glare.

“You took your time, coming here.” There was nothing holy there, only a man’s disapproval. Somehow, that was worse. It was enough to force Grantaire’s spine and his steps straight, out of spite, or perhaps simply the desire to please. He hardly knew which. Grantaire licked his lips and forced a laugh.

“Well”, he began, waving a hand airily, “there are so many demands on my consciousness these days, I can hardly keep up. Would you like me to ask for forgiveness? I could get down on my knees and beg. You might have to pull me back up, but I could do that for you.”

Human eyes weren’t meant to flash like that.

They weren’t, but they did.

“People died yesterday. They died because I killed them. Because they hurt other people. I killed them, in the name of Freedom. But the lists are too long. There are too many names, and now they’re being kept a secret. I forget things. I _killed people_ yesterday, and I don’t know who they were, or what they did, or if they did anything at all. And it. Is not. Right. I di­­­­­­­—”

“No.” Grantaire shook his head. “That’s not you, it’s­­—”

“They were _my_ hands.” Enjolras spat. He drew himself up slowly. “And it doesn’t matter. It’s not right. I didn’t come here to listen to you _beg_ for anything, or tell me what I did or didn’t do. I came here because you said you could explain. So explain.”

_“Explain.” Montparnasse stood with one hip cocked, flipping the vial over and over his knuckles. It glimmered faintly between his fingers._

_“Hm?” he hummed distantly, seemingly mesmerized by the flash._

_“I asked you what it did.” Grantaire said flatly. “So. Demon, by vine and by vein you have been summoned and bound, and thus bound, I do solemnly charge thee: answer the **fucking** question.”_

_Montparnasse smiled. “Do you ever wonder what it would be like to make an angel bleed? Cut one of those perfect throats, and watch them die in the dirt? Find all the not-feathers of the not-wings where they run into the not-flesh of those perfect shoulders and rip them out one by one? It wouldn’t look like a man’s blood. They’re not men. They’re not people at all” The vial spun and flashed over and over spinning in his hand. “Do you think it would flicker when they died? Like a candle going out?” Over and under and over “Or would they just keep shining?”_

_“Is that what it is, then?” Grantaire could feel the blood clotting on his palm, sticky and clammy and burning faintly where it mixed with the wine._

_“No.” Montparnasse shrugged insolently. “That was just idle speculation. Something to think about, that’s all. No, this” his hands stilled abruptly, clutching the vial in a viciously thin fist as his lips drew back over too-sharp teeth “This is mine. So you can imagine, my pretty little cynic, why I’m so curious how you came by it. It’s not the kind of thing I go giving away.” He hissed “And it’s not good for you people. Not good at all.”_

_“Why not?” Montparnasse said nothing and cast Grantaire a pitying look. The monk raised an eyebrow, kneading the edges of the cut on his palm until the blood began to well up. “Demon, by vine and vein—“_

_“Oh **spare me,** please **.”** Montparnasse spat “It’s blood. **My** blood. And it keeps me in the body to which I’ve become accustomed.” He plucked sharply at the pale flesh of his collarbone like a man showing off his clothes “This one used to **fight** so. But he can’t remember how anymore” the demon purred “Blood keeps you…”_

“…quiet. Open to…suggestions. They’ve been dosing you up, I assume so they can…suggest things.” Grantaire finished, scrubbing a hand over his face. Enjolras exhaled slowly, closing his eyes. His fingers brushed the neck of the small glass vial that Grantaire had pressed into his bandaged palm.

“Why?”

Grantaire snorted and shook his head. “Why does anybody do anything? They wanted more than what they had and they found a way to get tit. So they did. People are like that. We’re just a pack of selfish bastards when it comes down to it.” He turned to go, but Enjolras opened his eyes, and they were too bright, too blue and heavy. Grantaire couldn’t move.

“Then why are you doing this? Any of it? Why did you tell me?” Enjolras aksed.

_Because I think I lo—_

_Because there are voices in my head and they only ever stop when I’m with y—_

_Because I believe in—_

“Say I love my God. And something told me you should know. Good Luck, Golden Boy.” Grantaire smiled thinly and began the slow drag back to his cell.

“Enjolras. My name is Enjolras.”


	7. ἵστημι

Saints always bled in the stories, broken on wheels, or scourged, or stoned. Beaten. They were always bleeding in the stories, but Enjolras wondered if they felt it. He didn’t. He knew he must have been bleeding, he could see the smears left on the stone floors by his badly-bandaged feet, but he couldn’t feel it.  He wondered if it was like that for the saints, no pain, just a burning, right below the ribs, in the pit of his stomach and bitter smoke taste on his tongue. Did saints forget things? Did their heads hammer red then black-out to white-gold, asleep then awake then asleep then awake again?

Did saints wear spectacles?

That was what caught his attention as he paced, the sudden gleam of a man’s spectacles and a soft “Are you alright? Those look poorly done” as he gestured mildly to Enjolras’s wrapped feet Enjolras snorted.

“Forgive me,” the man continued, bobbing his head “I meant no disrespect, but you _are_ bleeding.”

Enjolras let out a rueful almost-laugh “No, no I…” He pressed his hands together over his lips and sighed. “I’ve heard that before” he concluded.

“Well, it’s true. They are. Will you let me help you?”

His name was Combeferre, “after the saint, yes” and he worked in Archives, and in the Infirmary, and in the gardens and the schools and “I’m only trying to help, however I can” he murmured, tugging and pulling with a brisk gentleness at the swathes of linen. He was tall, but a little stooped, as if trying not to inconvenience anyone by being so. He was easy to talk to, easy to trust.

“Will you let me help you?” he said. “Will you let me help?”

Combeferre could still get to the Lists.

The scrolls rustled, a cry, wintry rasp as Combeferre laid them out.

“Records of donations, and gifts to the Order.”

A crackle, and soft slide of parchment on parchment

“Disputes.”

A soft click as Combeferre laid his spectacles aside

“The names of the…” He hesitated, inky fingers circling restlessly. Enjolras raised his chin defiantly, eyes burning blue and cold and hard.

“The people I killed.”

“…Yes.”

Did saints ever feel sick? Did ever feel it like _that,_ that sudden twist wrenching their insides like–

no, but that was just what they were giving him, that was making him sick

Combeferre pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut against the sight of Enjolras’s face. His tongue flickered out over his lips, and he said “There are…correspondences. The people who made gifts and the people who died had… listed claims against one another…”

His voice continued, but Enjolras, doubled over, heaving dryly, only distantly aware of hands pulling the hair away from his face, of a whisper in his hear “Not all of them. Not all of them, it’s not your fault”

He sucked down ragged gulps of air, drawing himself back together. “This ends.” Enjolras hissed, pushing himself up to his feet. “This ends now.”

Combeferre pulled away from him, and stepped back to retrieve his spectacles. “We’ll need more than just the two of us.” He murmured, resting the wire frame against his lips.

“Then we’ll find them.”

Did Saints ever doubt that people would come? Were they ever relieved to hear, after a moment of silence and teeth closed around an ink-stained thumbnail, “I may know someone who could help.”

Someone was a nobleman’s spare son, not the heir, not the second, nor even the third, an extra who had been shuffled into the Order for schooling, for lack anything better to do with him. Someone was bright-eyed and bright-smiled, and prone to warm laughter. His name was Courfeyrac. He knew everyone. And knowing everyone, he brought Jehan, little Jehan the psalmist, who offered to spread what messages he could in his songs, and Jehan brought in Feuilly, who stopped for a moment and stared, head one side, at Enjolras when they first met.

“Do you remember me? I used to…” he had laughed, sheepishly, reddening around his freckles “I used to steal apples from your garden, and you caught me. You wouldn’t let me go until I taught you how to climb. I must’ve come every week ‘til they ran me off”

No. No, he didn’t remember, and Feuilly had shaken his head. “He said you were forgetting”

But he joined them, slipping messages into broken books sent for repair, painting their signs on the walls, and the signs drew in more people.

Workers and Guardsmen, and the Guardsman who never stopped grinning, with too many teeth and scars all down his forearms and another across his temple, who clapped Feuilly on the shoulder (and let his hand stay there just a little too long to mean nothing) and who made Joly from the infirmary yelp an exasperated “Not _you_ again!”

Grantaire came last, his eyes rimmed red and his mouth stained redder.

They met in secret, at odd, stolen hours strung out across weeks. They met a little at time, never too many together. They met, and once, only once did someone ask

“Have you considered that what we’re doing isn’t right?”

Yes.

But it was.

———————————————————

 “Have you considered that what we’re doing isn’t right?”

“Extensively. And having done so, I am afraid that I must disagree with you, my friend.” The priest, a vulture in his coarse white habit, smiled indulgently. His companion, shorter and silver-haired, frowned.

“Babet…”

“You worry too much, Lamarque. We’ve done nothing wrong. Everything is as it was; they who have done wrong are punished for their transgressions” Babet smiled indulgently. But Lamarque, it seemed, remained unconvinced.

“And we are letting people pay us to see to it that such punishment falls where they want it to. The work of our Order is–”

“Is to help those in need. To attend to the suffering of the righteous and the breaking of their chains. And our charity will be surely be repaid in the next world, But in this one, Brother, it _costs_ us. We cannot help anyone when we ourselves are bound by our own weaknesses, our own lack of influence. Surely you see that.”

“So you would turn Patron Minette, The Brothers of the Dawn, those of us at the top of our Order, you would have us take their money in exchange for mens’ lives?”

Babet whirled on the other man, eyes flashing. “I would see us help people. I would see us free them of want and sickness and ignorance. But Freedom is not without its price.” He turned away again.

“And the boy?” Lamarque murmured. Babet bowed his head.

“The boy was always going to die. They always do. Men aren’t meant for that. Some are closer to the angels than others, but the light burns them all in the end. Prices, Brother. There are always prices.”

“You know who I mean. The boy he wouldn’t kill, the boy He let go. He doesn’t let people go.”

On eyebrow arched. “Evidently he does. And the ‘boy’ is a drunk and a heretic and likely insane as well. Nobody would believe him. He is no threat to us.”

“We can’t touch him. We can do nothing to him, how is that not a threat?”

Silence. “What aren’t you telling the rest of us?”

“Nothing.”

“Ba–”

“ _Nothing._ Go in peace, Brother.”


End file.
